'Always,' she said slowly. 'Only,' she added, 'there have been times when, if I happened to be in the house of some rich and beautiful lady, reading her palm you know, mammy, I've thought it strange that many things I saw, which most gipsy girls might not have known the use of, were to me quite familiar.'
'Yes?'
'The first harp I saw did not seem to have been the first. When asked to play the piano, nothing about it struck me as new, and I felt familiar with even the smallest of my drawing-room surroundings.'
'Yes?'
'But I know how to account for all that.'
'Well, dear?'
'It all comes, mammy, of reading books of romance and stupidity; and some such stories I quite believed when quite a little tot, especially about the baronet's baby-boy who was stolen by a bad sweep, and who, years and years afterwards, was called to a great house to sweep chimneys and found his real mother, and lived happy ever after. But I'm wiser now, mammy dear. Now, mammy, will you do the first thing I ask you?'
'Yes, child.'
'Well, look there! I've finished my nice drink, and now sing me a song, and I'll fall as sound asleep as your grandchild Norlans. Then don't wake me, but just lift me into bed.'
Mammy had a sweet voice, and knew also how to modulate it, so softly, tenderly she sang: